


In the bleak midwinter

by Ephemera_pop (Alex_Draven)



Category: Popslash
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Alternate Universe: Historical, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Diary/Journal, Gen, M/M, Secret Santa, UK AU, Wales, Winter Solstice, mtyg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-10-19 08:54:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10636533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex_Draven/pseuds/Ephemera_pop
Summary: Extracts from the journal of Christopher K---------,19th December, 1888(P--------, North Wales)I do my best not to be discouraged, but the comparison between our lodgings tonight, and the comforts of town and the warm brandy fug in which we concocted this plan, do not incline me towards optimism. I can admit here, in this journal, that I have never been as convinced as L.B and J.T, let alone my dear J.C, that L.B's discovered papers are going to lead us to proof of the Celtic mysteries of this remote corner of our nation, and tonight, alone in a cramped, damp bedroom so spartan as to fail to furnish me with a desk to write this at, any hopes that I may once have had are at a low ebb.  J.F and N.C have approached this project from the start with the wry smiles of men who would humour their friends, and I find myself wondering it perhaps we would be more comfortable now if we had paid more heed to them?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Ninjetti for Make the Yuletide Gay, 2016. Original URL: http://www.maketheyuletidegay.org/appthena.do?o.action=view_story&o.key=356

Extracts from the journal of Christopher K---------,

19th December, 1888  
(P--------, North Wales)

I do my best not to be discouraged, but the comparison between our lodgings tonight, and the comforts of town and the warm brandy fug in which we concocted this plan, do not incline me towards optimism. I can admit here, in this journal, that I have never been as convinced as L.B and J.T, let alone my dear J.C, that L.B's discovered papers are going to lead us to proof of the Celtic mysteries of this remote corner of our nation, and tonight, alone in a cramped, damp bedroom so spartan as to fail to furnish me with a desk to write this at, any hopes that I may once have had are at a low ebb. J.F and N.C have approached this project from the start with the wry smiles of men who would humour their friends, and I find myself wondering it perhaps we would be more comfortable now if we had paid more heed to them?

 

I cannot fault L.B and N.C on their arrangements, though. The trains that brought us to Wales ran comfortably, and to time. The bridge at Conwy is, indeed, most striking, running so close under the ramparts of the castle as to give the impression that the train itself will enter through a drawbridge somewhere. Even the rented cart that carried our party the final miles to this village served its purpose well - clean straw, sufficient space for us all, the driver seemingly happy to tolerate our somewhat noisy camaraderie, and share nips from N.C's hip flask, as we all did, to fend off the chill. Even our lodgings - I doubt there's another house within twenty miles that could furnish six rooms, and our landlady, Mrs J------ , can hardly be blamed for the cold and damp of the climate so near the sea.

I must say, N.C has surprised me with his practical support, as well as his good humour. He may well be convinced that this expedition is a wild goose chase, and for good reason, but it is clear that he dotes on J.T, and would do anything to support his chum in his passions. Perhaps my sympathies towards him are increased by that commonality in our experience? I would not voice my doubts to J.C for the world.

The papers L.B found this summer have, I admit, every suggestion of authenticity - the hand is old-fashioned, but not antique, and identifiably the same hand throughout, if in differing inks. The paper has a look of age; the maps show no anachronisms - no bridge marked across the strait, no mention of the railways that carried us here.

In every detail, the research that J.C has carried out corroborates the papers. His rooms in London are now home to a whole shelf of books and maps and letters collected in support of L.B's papers, and, I admit, his quiet, glowing confidence in his work has, over the past weeks, tipped my opinion further and further towards hope, however perfectly implausible the stories contained in said papers seem to be. "Wales may be spoken of as the cradle of fairy legend." is a line that I have heard from my companions many times in recent months. Tonight, though, the cold fell hand of realism is hard to escape. We cannot, surely, expect to find real-life fairy-tales in the modern age?

20th December, 1888  
(P--------, North Wales)

I could not tell you how many miles we must have walked today, tramping through the Welsh countryside, the bare hedgerows rimed with frost, the sky such a sharp clear blue that J.C whispered that it were as though you could see clear up to heaven, yet I do not feel fatigued, or mind the cold, for all my toes are numb with it.

Everything we have found today corroborates L.B's papers! The sketch-maps contained amongst the notes describe a number of small features, impossible for even J.C to investigate at a distance. Comparison with printed maps had confirmed the basic outlines of the route was plausible, if not always accurately to scale, but it wasn't until we could come here, walking in the footsteps of the original author, that the details could be tested.

And what a test!

Our first success came this morning, before we had even left the village. The notes describe the author's angle of departure towards the mountains by reference to a pair of gravestones in the small graveyard of the chapel. L.B's labours over the maps gave us an idea of their heading, and, despite the stubborn shadows of the midwinter morning, with six of us combing through the markers, brushing away lichen with gloved fingers and pulling free wiry tufts of dead winter grass, it took barely a quarter of a hour for J.C to find the three sisters mentioned by the author, and along side them, the still-crisp engraving of an anchor on a broken slate stone, marking the final resting place of Captain W----s.

The sense of elation amongst our party can be imagined, and we set off on our route with high hearts and in a great chatter.

It cannot be said that we found every landmark, but enough. Indeed, an abundance of them. Every one that might reasonably be expected to stand the test of eighty years or more. The convergence of two mountain streams; three cairns of rocks, each larger than the last, marking a line which J.T compares to something he read about from Brittany; a standing stone, in solitary splendour. There was no twisted tree in the lee of the valley at the head of a stream, but the substantial blasted, weathered stump of one where it was expected – it seems the victim of some past lightning strike. (At this point, L.B read to us an extract from Sikes, concerning buried fairy treasure protected by lightning storms, the affect of which was powerful. It is one thing to read these accounts by the fireside in gas-lit London: quite another to contemplate such tales at some distance from the nearest human habitation.)

There is no question but that we are in the place detailed in L.B's discovered papers, and it is equally clear that our author was accurate in the natural history and features of the environment that he describes. J.C is, of course, quite convinced that we must therefore also trust the more mystical elements of his accounts.

I confess, I find myself now wanting to believe for myself, and not just in support of my companions. Nevertheless, I cannot fault J.F's argument that our author's honesty assures us of nothing concerning the truth of the sources he reports. The notes are clear that, as a summer visitor to the region, his account of the midwinter activities is hearsay and local myth.

So: tomorrow we will test our sources completely. Tomorrow is the solstice day, tomorrow night the longest night of all the year, and we will be witnesses, if, indeed, there is anything to witness.

 

21st December, 1888  
(outside P--------, North Wales)

And so we take our station.

It is a cold day and will be a colder night for camping out, but I should count my blessings that it is not raining to boot. We have two small tents and a windbreak, to offer us some shelter from the wind, and carried with us enough small wood to keep a fire lit throughout the night, which will furnish both light - along with our tubular lanterns - and heat, and keep us in tea and Bovril.

It is hard to describe the atmosphere of our party. We started out loud with jocularity and excitement, fuelled by Mrs J-----s sausages, high spirited and hopeful, but as we have been setting up camp, the mood has turned sombre. L.B and J.C have paced and re-paced the markers, exchanged tense whispers as to the correct position of our camp fire. There is no sign that I can see of any cracks or entryways into the hillside, nor of any structures beyond those we found yesterday. The standing stone is somewhat uncanny, but it is smaller than those J.C and I have seen on Anglesey, and without L.B's papers one would not mark it particularly.

It is almost half past three, and the light is already starting to fade. Our author tells us to mark the shadows at sunset, so I must pack away my journal, and begin our watch.

 

23rd December, 1888  
(Liverpool)

L.B has been scrawling pages and pages of letters to Christmas Tree throughout our journey today. He sent one packet, I assume written in the village, back to London as we transferred to our train, and sent another from the hotel before dinner, whilst I find myself uncertain where to start, or how to address what we have witnessed.

I have seen, with my own eyes, an ancient mystery that I cannot explain. A thing that cannot be true, unless it is a miracle, but if it is a miracle, then surely it is proof of ancient pagan deities, native to these shores, rather than the actions of the Almighty?

I do not know what to think.

Even J.T has been surprisingly subdued, after his initial wide eyed glee. J.C has barely spoken, even to me, or to L.B. He is distracted in a way that suggests his focus is entirely inwards – the outer world barely seems to exist for him. In truth, I am worried – about all of them, of us, but most especially J.C.

J.F persists in trying to jolly up our company, talking with animation about the possibility of using wax cylinders to make recordings – if it were not for him I wonder if we would still be sitting on a hillside in Wales, frozen in place by sheer startlement? - between him, and N.C, we have had a measure of brute practicality which has been sorely needed, and any pretence we have made in the hotel dining room of being a fit company for such a setting is entirely their doing. For myself, I manage a few snatches of polite conversation, more or less by rote, before my mind is drawn back, inescapably, to what we have seen and heard.

As we have all sworn, one to another, before this expedition and again on that hillside, not to share the details of our trip beyond our immediate circle – the six of us who undertook it, and our closest companions back in London (which for some of us are one and the same thing, but the terms permit both J.F the necessary privilege of being honest with his wife, and L.B the comfort of sharing his mind with Christmas Tree) – we are all, I think, eager to return to London where we can discuss the matter in greater privacy, but before that, I must try to record what I remember.

The shadows were lengthening, the horizon to the west starting to colour, as we took our position, as given in the papers, lanterns shuttered, our backs to the three cairns, facing the standing stone. I remember that the day was cold, and still – no sounds but the flow of the stream . After some time, when the sunset had become a rich jewel red, a bird flew overhead – J.C nudged me with his elbow to point it out to me – but high enough that it was pure silhouette, and I cannot be sure if it was a seagull or something more fittingly wild.

When I looked back in the direction of our watch, I saw it – a cleft in the hillside, revealed by the last clear shadow of the evening. I froze, and I felt J.C freeze next to me. From the intakes of breath around us, I knew that were all seeing the same uncanny thing. I could not tell you how long we stood there – perhaps moments, perhaps long minutes - but the twilight was deepening rapidly into true darkness, and yet the crack – the cave, it then seemed to me – was still visible. It was as through someone had lit a candle far inside the hillside – a diffuse dim glow of golden light – and by that candlelight, they began to play.

The music was faint, at first, but we all heard it, and as we listened, it grew stronger. It was unlike any music I have heard before, like birdsong and the wild sounds of nature, formed into an unmistakable melody, a rhythm and flow, complexities beyond the repetitive calls of dumb beasts, the suggestion of strings and perhaps a bodrum, a flute?

In our conversations since it has become apparent that while we all heard music emanating from the illuminated cave, each of us heard something different. J.F describes an unaccompanied choir, deep and resonant, words in a language he did not recognise; L.B, something driven by the rhythm of wild drums. J.C has been humming distracted snatches, scribbling chords and phrases in his notebooks, and I do not remember hearing the tune that he is trying to capture, but assuredly he does.

I think J.T was the first of us to sink to his knees, pulling N.C down with him, which I could see from the corner of my eye, for nothing could persuade me to look away from that unearthly light. Eventually, we were all seated on the ground, having subsided where we stood, and, when the music faded to silence, and the light dimmed to nothing, it seemed as though many hours had past. The waning moon was shining high above us, the stars bright and clear. Our fire had burned out, and the lamps were guttering.

L.B broke our silence, asking in a hushed and harried voice for each man to check their timepieces. My pocket watch, which is normally most reliable, and has served me well some years, had stopped some few minutes after four o'clock. It seems that none of us had a watch still wo--

 

24th December, 1888  
(Liverpool)

I have returned to my room in these still early hours, as it would not do for the hotel's staff to find me sleeping in J.C's arms, however much I might wish to remain there, and having woken and made use of the connecting door between our rooms to safeguard our propriety, sleep eludes me.

Indeed, were it not for J.C's attentions last night, I'm not sure that I would have slept at all (the slumber in which I passed most of yesterday seems more akin to unconsciousness than sleep) but my friend knows me too well. Our accommodations here are positively luxurious, by comparison with my own rooms in London, and the facilities of the club, as well as by contrast with the earlier nights of this expedition. It would be a wasted opportunity indeed, to have use of a large private bathtub, steaming with hot water, and space enough to luxuriate, and not to take advantage of them.

I am no closer to being able to explain what I have heard and seen these past days, but I feel much more myself. I am less concerned about J.C than I have been as well – he was so absorbed in his memories these past two days, so anxious – perhaps desperate – to capture something of the music that he heard, that I was becoming concerned that he would lose track of the present, as he is wont to do in his obsessions sometimes, but more permanently. The simple fact that he came to me, that it was he who turned the key in the connecting door, reassures me immeasurably.

We return to London today – tomorrow morning I will be singing carols at St S------, along with my mother and sisters – but for these few hours, we have had some peace. Together we have seen something miraculous, and together we must return to the regular world. I can only trust to our particular friendship, and the ties of companionship and experience between our small party, that together we will find a way to make sense of what we have experienced and, perhaps, a way to communicate our discoveries to the wider world.

~fin~


End file.
